Lockpicks
by ElectricWhiplashing
Summary: It took him vorns to get to the point he was. Pain, loss and suffering couldn't leave him; he was a fool to think otherwise. These Decepticons would never leave him be. Not as long as they were left alive. All that was left to do was to wait. They would slip up and would show them why he, a tactician, was their most fearsome adversary in the Autobot ranks. Primeverse AU. HBD RAP!
1. Chapter 1

The war seemed to drag on forever. Perhaps it was his inability to rest, perhaps his lack of knowledge as to how he might rest in such a situation. The war had left their home and made its way across galaxies, littering planets with fallen bodies of soldiers and innocent civilians, rubble making its complex patterns on the streets.

Those images, despite their age and impossible number, they didn't blur or fade with time as he'd hoped. Every time his processor even wandered down a path he'd wished it didn't, memories peppered the forefront of his thoughts, each fallen comrade a blow he fought to recover from. Their foes had been quiet for some time, and while the more cynical bots (usually including him) had been insistent that they would not be left alone for long, the sharp decline in activity, followed by an almost stale silence, had said otherwise.

Up until that point, the Decepticons had acted as if they'd been wiped out by some sort of plague. A likely possibility, the tactician had acknowledged, considering there were few other options to explain such a move. Them having gone completely incognito would have meant either foregoing their war-like habits altogether or putting in a great amount of effort to keep their activities under the radar. Chances were, if they attempted to perform the latter feat, it would only result in a slip up, and theoretically, such a mistake would have happened by that point.

Decepticons just giving up, completely out of the blue? Without an outside force putting pressure on them to give it up and just live peacefully? There was a fat chance of that ever happening. Especially taking into consideration some of the known key Decepticon players in the skirmishes leading up to their silence. Blackout and Devastator, being some of the more vicious fighters, each having torn through more than their fair share of Autobots, had just vanished.

Even the bounty hunters operating in the area had seemed to have backed off, with not so much as a word about Devcon to be heard.

Clearly, even if the prolific gambler wasn't dead, his source of credits had dried up, and it was not at all possible that the Decepticons decided to stop causing violence for violence's sake out of the pure kindness of their sparks, hence his extinction theory. If it had been a plague, that would have explained the very sudden loss of numbers, the frenzy and panic with which they'd disappeared. It also would have explained them going after First Aid in some sort of final reach of desperation.

But with them reappearing, it made little sense. If the Decepticons had busied themselves doing something else in preparation for this series of non-assaults, why had they even gone dark, or at least gone to such great lengths to disappear, only to resurface? There was a chance that they hadn't vanished at all, but Prowl refused to believe that the Decepticons had engaged with another adversary or gone on causing a mess for the Autobots to clean up without said Autobots knowing about it.

Standing in the base's command center, even in the middle of the night cycle, Prowl watched the flat terrain surrounding their base, helm turning every so often as he surveyed the expanse of territory. This had been something he'd insisted upon when building their new base of operations in the sector. If Autobot forces were operating out of this location, not only would it be completely flat as far as any reasonable mech could see in every direction, with no hiding spots, debris or any other forms of cover making a path towards their base, but even before the construction had begun he had mandated there be a watch tower such as this one, where mechs would take shifts on high alert waiting for the enemy.

Usually two other mechs would have been up here, but Prowl was more than capable of watching their territory on his own. It gave him a sense of not only pride, but reassurance that he was ensuring their security, if only through simple, but effective means. The base was rather large, and it had to be for the number of mechs it housed. As such, he took comfort in seeing the sentries posted on the walls, the number of which he had doubled two decaorns ago.

A few decaorns before, he'd have given a great list of things for peace and quiet. Besides the occasional out of hand ruckus from his mechs, a complaint from First Aid about having to patch up said morons responsible for the mess, and another from Jazz for punishing those responsible (whether or not the saboteur was serious, he couldn't be sure), things had been fairly manageable. A steady stream of supplies trickled into the base, their perimeter was secure, and despite the best efforts of two overly rambunctious terror twins, the base had not plunged into complete and utter chaos.

This quiet, however, was not something he had wished for. It was almost like shadows loomed over him and his Autobots, the taunting, hateful kind of darkness that threatened to unleash its fury from the pits upon them on nothing more than a whim. He'd have taken the twins' antics over this any day. The only problem was, this was his duty, his uncaring responsibility, and the war that he had sworn to fight was one such reality. The panic hadn't set in yet, much to his relief, but he knew once his mechs realized exactly how helpless they'd proven to be against the new and sudden threat, no matter how apparently small, it would be that much harder to bring order back.

There had to be a reason for all of this; for the heightened Decepticon presence near their base. Scouts had been spotted and pursued near the outskirts of their remote outpost and beyond their normal perimeter of surveillance, but the enemy forces had not engaged. It didn't make any sense, not to him, and not to the rest of the command staff.

They'd had suggestions, just as Prowl had, but none of them seemed to fit. Answers were good, facts were better, but factual answers were what he strived for. Unfortunately, there were none to be had, from him or his companions. Speaking of which…

Jazz came up to stand just behind the left side of his longtime companion, his own impeccable observational skills being put to good use immediately. The silence was comfortable for a while, since neither of them felt the need to say anything, but Prowl knew Jazz had come up here in the middle of his off-period for more than companionship.

"They're plotting something, Prowl," the saboteur said lowly, even sounding like he was scowling. A habit he'd adopted recently from Prowl, "Ah don't like it,"

"Neither do I," the Praxian admitted lowly, "It isn't just me I have to think about, unfortunately. And before you say it, I can't think about just the two of us, either,"

Jazz snorted, "You got me there, 'cept for the fact that it isn't just me worrying about all of this," he reminded his companion, "The entire base is on its toes. We're all a little nervous, Prowl," Though the words might have remained simple, they were anything but coming from his closest friend. Jazz didn't admit weaknesses. Not out loud, at least, and the verbalization of any such fears from the visored mech was definitely weighing heavily in his decision making.

"I know, but we're not the only ones," Prowl said, his gaze only moving to scan a different part of the terrain. He knew it well enough that it was familiar to him as his own servos, but still, he couldn't help but wait for something to feel off.

Jazz seemed mildly surprised, but whether because of his answer or his reasoning, Prowl didn't entirely know, "Then why aren't ya going after them?" He asked, standing back to back with the other commander and taking up the second watch post.

"They have not harmed our forces," he said, "They have not killed patrolling soldiers that stumbled across them, unlike before," Prowl reminded him, and the slight brush of air that swept past his doorwings confirmed his suspicions that Jazz had flinched, "Most notably, they are doing nothing to our supply routes, neither are they reconstructing their base."

A little more than exasperated as they switched their positions, Jazz managed to catch his friend's optics for an astrosecond and pronounce his annoyance, "Prowl, it doesn't mean they're not planning something," he insisted quite firmly, "I know you're trying to be rational about this, but cynicism isn't always a bad thing. I feel like we've got a whole role reversal going on here,"

"I am not ignorant, Jazz," Prowl said, and to any other, it would have seemed like scolding, but they were good enough friends to see past even the bitterest of words, "They are most definitely plotting something, but I couldn't tell you what it was even if I could read minds. Their actions seem jumbled and motions uncoordinated. I am still having a hard time trying to make sense of it all,"

"You don't think they're a danger?" the special operations mech asked incredulously, "That's ridiculous,"

"I did not say that," Prime's chief tactician said, a bit more icily than was truly necessary, "I think this is our first real exposure to Decepticons in some time, and it would be awfully hostile for us to respond with our own aggressive maneuvers towards fellow members of our race, whom lack all indications of violent intentions, and have yet to strike against us. The patrols will be vigilant, and in greater numbers to prevent attacks, but chasing down and capturing these mechs will not result in anything but further bloodshed. We know next to nothing about them, and the only thing they seem to want to do is escape once we approach them,"

"But we know they know that we know about them," the long string of potentially confusing and repetitive words came about, and even Prowl had trouble sorting through it with all of his Jazz-perience, "They keep coming back anyways," Jazz insisted.

Any normal mech would have assumed Jazz won the argument and wandered off to eavesdrop on someone else, and from the ensuing silence, it seemed Prowl had accepted his defeat gracefully. An outsider would have insisted that Prowl had been talked into a corner with their limited knowledge. Besides, there were no rules against thinking during a discussion, and Prowl would know.

Still, he'd taken long enough to think about it that even Jazz offered him an offhand glance to make sure Prowl was still with him. He looked torn, something Jazz took to mean that he had a point but wasn't sure whether or not it would be received well. Not usually something Prowl did around his friend. Both their censors tended to vanish around each other after so many vorns of friendship. Still, as Prowl vented deeply, the saboteur knew his friend was going through with the argument despite the faults he might have had with it. "There are few things that motivate mechs to do foolish things. Love, war, and revenge. All three motivations cause the abandonment of reason and welcome anarchy of the spark, in the form of desperation," he said firmly, as if he'd never hesitated to begin with, sounding rather assured in his response.

"Desperation?" Jazz echoed, "Are ya saying they're just scared, and that's why we aren't pouring our wrath on them?"

"Aren't we just frightened? Mirage is on those routes, and so is Bluestreak. Many of our other friends and companions are also outside this base, repeatedly. We both know it, and every orn it gnaws away at us."

"So, what's your strategy if we're all a bunch of scaredy-bots?"

"We talk to them," Oh, and he made it sound like such a simple solution, too.

Jazz made a face and turned to the Praxian in blatant shock. "Talk?"

"Their behavior is irrational," Prowl said plainly, "It makes no sense, and we have no information. If we get them to slip up, to reveal something of their minds, we might come to realize what their intentions truly are. Because if their intentions were violence, I do not believe they would be taking the best path to achieve their goals through such means,"

"Prowl, what are you saying? Because they seem slagging crazy, we should stroll over to where they are, hope they don't attack, or run away, and then get them to say something? What makes you think they'll talk? They don't want to talk to us, clearly, and it's not like extreme measures of producing answers would be approved,"

"No, they wouldn't," Prowl said tersely, "You and I are already walking a very fine line here. Torturing prisoners that do not present a clear and present danger to us is not an option. Not if we want to keep the respect of these mechs and femmes here,"

"Slag dis thing,"

"I'm not saying we do it now. I am telling you to think about it, before we meet with the others again. Something must be decided, but I do not believe we must act hastily, especially without all of the facts available to us."

A hint of suspicion appeared, and Jazz stared at his co-commander with intensely scrutinizing optics, "You know something, don't you?"

"I know that we need more information," Prowl said, as if scolding a small child who knew they were in the wrong, "Anything else at this point is speculation, and must be kept separate from fact,"

"The mechs suspect Quintessans. And their pet sparkeaters," The second in command retorted.

"Jazz," Prowl deadpanned, "You have had some ridiculous ideas, certainly, but I'm not so sure Sideswipe is a reliable source,"

"For gossip, he is. Bots are jittery, Prowl," the white and black mech said, "The new combat drills you have us running, training every orn, increasing the number and frequency of patrols and sentries? Everyone is on edge,"

"Good," the tactician replied.

"Good?" Jazz repeated incredulously, "I think we need to work on your definition of good, Prowl. I'm not the only one who hears rumors. The new Autobots who arrived a few decaorns ago have been asking me during their breaks if they made a mistake coming here. They're not just on edge. They're afraid. That is what the rest of us call bad,"

Prowl scoffed, giving his friend a genuinely irritated glare, "War is violent," he said, ice forming in the room with just those few words, "Inevitably so. Pretending we can go about our way when there is the possibility of losing mechs is ridiculous."

Servos threw themselves up in mock surrender, "I never said it wasn't. I just hope you know what you're going to say to the mechs, because that isn't going to fly,"

* * *

It wasn't often that soldiers saw their commanding officer mourn. They all knew the stories of the unwavering Autobot second-in-command and his closest friend making their way through several galaxies after the mass Exodus by the Autobots. Many said he was the reason this base had even happened to begin with. This City of Fortitude, as it was originally named, had been the Tactician's plan after many vorns of picking up strays and defending broken Autobot units.

He'd often hear the retellings, when Autobots who had joined along the way wondered aloud at how they'd been able to create something so beautiful and long-lasting. For whatever reason, this permanence was exactly what so many of the mechs had needed, and no one had protested the construction of Fort City, the name it had been shortened to by its inhabitants.

It was a simple enough tale, he supposed. In reality, he wasn't the only one responsible for the foundation of this magnificent structure. His team had been significantly smaller than that of the Ark's crew, having opted for the company of those he trusted the most rather than a few thousand mechs aboard the massive space cruiser.

Two medics, admittedly one medic by the name of Frist Aid, and his apprentice, Safeguard, in addition to a brilliant protégé of an engineer (trained by Wheeljack himself before his insistence on becoming a member of the wreckers) who had only agreed to travel with Prowl on the condition that his conjunx be allowed on the ship. Prowl had instantly agreed, much to the mech's surprise, but in reality, it wasn't all that ground-breaking when taking into consideration how valuable the mech really was. Having his conjunx on board just sweetened the deal, no matter how much PDA and possible indecent exposure they'd have to endure every once in a while.

Of course, Prowl had also insisted said mech be given a security clearance and labeled as a consultant, while still a civilian, but he wasn't changing protocol on a whim for just anyone.

Bluestreak had also joined the crew, listed as a highly specialized operative, alongside Jazz, Mirage, Trailbreaker (a last-minute replacement for the suddenly deceased Hound), Springer, Hot Rod, and a sweet-tempered femme by the name of Spacewalker who was too absent-minded for her own good. Sweet, but a bit of an airhead. Still, she was as good a navigator as he'd ever seen, and the only one who'd gotten through to her was the tactician.

She had been like Red Alert, in that way, he supposed.

When they'd set out into the universe hoping to find answers, or at least a safe haven, Prowl had never even suspected that he would once again find himself in charge of the biggest known Autobot complex in the universe. It had taken a long time, and a great deal of loss for him and his crew to make their way to Refuge and take a stance against the Decepticon forces, but undoubtedly, it had been worth it.

Every setback, injury, extinguished spark, each of them had all led to the massive complex they'd come up with against all odds.

And yet, standing there in front of the small fountain engraved with all the names of the Autobots remembered and lost, Prowl couldn't escape the grief that was laced into every corner of the room. Out of respect for the dead, this large area had been set aside and planned to a tee. The pentagon shape prism in the middle of the fountain, with similarly shaped boundaries of the trickling energon structure, and matching walls, all shined and shimmered under the modest lighting that came from whatever natural source was available at the time.

It was night time, and following a successful meeting, Prowl had gotten plans of action approved and methods of execution of said plans put in motion. It would only be a matter of time before they captured one of the scouts and gleaned some information, but he worried. Worried that his plans would fail, that more good mechs would die because of a mistake he made or a flaw no one had pointed out. He knew he wasn't infallible, but often mechs acted like he was Prime, or some ridiculous thing like that.

They were obviously wrong but pointing that out would needlessly cause conflict that would require time resolving when he could spend the same amount of time preparing their forces adequately for the upcoming skirmishes.

Still, when time was so precious, one often forgot what truly mattered, and that was the reason he'd come to the sanctuary. Standing just before the obelisk-like structure in front of him, his digits traced the engraved metal so slow they were almost caught on the deeply cut names.

Glyphs for respected lost mechs perforated his touch, tracing the names and frowning. He felt the symbol for Ironhide, for Hound, for Red Alert, and just after it, Inferno.

Everyone that Prowl and his mechs remembered had been put into these metal engravings, and there were even some names forgotten by the living that had made their way into the memorial. The sanctuary was deathly silent, a reminder of the similarly conditioned frames of their lost comrades, and out of respect for them, not even the terror twins disrupted it.

There were few others in the structure along with him. The engraver, a mech by the name of Tactile, who had stepped up to volunteer his services for the immense symbol remembrance, wasn't there that night, but it wasn't a surprise, since it was the middle of the fourth shift. Despite his other duties, Tactile often spent his off hours working on the memorial and was a younger mech who had engraved the entire thing. There was still extra space, and unfortunately, it was being filled in, glyph by glyph. He could often be found working to inscribe the names of the lost, and wouldn't let anyone else help him, not even Sunstreaker.

When Prowl had asked why he'd been so determined to do the work he was, in addition to the shifts he pulled just like all of the other Autobots, Tactile had shrugged and said something about pulling his weight, in addition to understanding the history behind the faction he had been born into. It was almost like he felt a responsibility to help his fellow soldiers grieve, in the way he explained it at least.

The base commander had put him on the counseling team's radar, just in case.

As more mechs trickled into their walls, more names came along with them. The tactician recalled a group of seven mechs who had banded together following the annihilation of their entire base. They'd barely even spoken in passing, but the tragedy had forced them to survive the massacre together.

When they'd made it to Fort City, three hundred names had come with them, and Tactile had been working for several decaorns every free moment he'd had.

He noticed white armor shaking with the effort of holding himself together. The familiar frame of Drift stood in front of one of the older patches, looking at a particular name that struck home for the black and white mech. Ratchet. It had been a devastating blow a few vorns before to learn of the medic's passing, and Drift had taken it especially hard. No one had dared to ask why. The dark glares at the wall and fury had deterred many a curious mech.

Still, as much as he knew remembering all of their lost soldiers was important, he was looking for something in particular. The names were arranged in chronological order, to the best of their ability, at least, and one of the more recent sections had been the result of the violence that had begun four and a half vorns after construction of the initial buildings on Refuge.

They'd aggravated a local military outpost comprised of Decepticons, who had taken measures against them as soon as construction had begun, something no one had quite realized until after the initial assault. The Autobot forces had driven the Decepticons back, and fortified their position, allowing for the completion of more military facilities, and shield generators, but the ensuing stalemate had cost both sides dearly.

Eventually, Prowl had ordered the complete wipeout of their base, and he'd thought the matter was dealt with until they'd started going after patrols that strayed just too far from the base to be reinforced in time. Slaughters of the small groups had been a form of vengeance by those Decepticons that had escaped the Autobot's destruction of their home. One of those had been a trio of mechs. Namely Sideswipe, Bluestreak, and Smokescreen.

The red twin had seized the gray mech and gone for cover, but by the time he had managed to secure a path to the injured Elite Guardsmech, he'd been shot in the back. Smokescreen hadn't gotten up again, not so much as even twitched, and the extreme reaction from Bluestreak had pointed towards the effects of bond loss. Sideswipe hadn't had the opportunity to go for Smokey's body before the Decepticons vanished as quickly as they'd come, taking the dead Praxian along with them.

Prowl suspected Sideswipe came down there nearly as often as he did.

This time, however, he wasn't completely alone. Bluestreak, doorwings set low on his back, clearly miserable, was staring at the glyph of his brother's name. His younger brother had a way of beating himself up so badly not even Prowl could compete sometimes. The black and white Praxian reached for his brother, moving slowly so as not to startle him.

One servo squeezed the silver-plated shoulder in front of him, and two sets of blue optics met. "Hey, Prowl," came the melancholy greeting. It couldn't mask how relieved he still was to see the older of the two Praxians.

"Hello," he'd replied gently, "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," Bluestreak lied, turning back to stare at the singular shape before his optics. "It isn't really fair, is it?"

"No, I don't suppose it is,"

"We just got him back. When we found him on the Decepticon prison ship, I'd hoped that we were going to be together again, as a family, and then he was just… gone."

"It isn't your fault,"

"It's not your fault either. Nobody's but that slagging con's."

Prowl nodded silently. It wouldn't do to tell Bluestreak that it was, in fact, really Prowl's fault. The blame game had no place where they were. Still, Bluestreak had been right. Having both of his brothers safe and secure had been such a blessing, he should have known it wouldn't last.

The two of them never should have been out together regardless. He'd cracked down on switching shifts with other Autobots when lacking the approval of a superior officer, in addition to demoting those soldiers who had neglected their duty while observing scanners and other instruments responsible for recording activity near their base. Scathing reprimands had been formally issued, and Prowl had turned to himself and put all of that resentment towards those responsible in the back of his spark, for later. It would serve him well when the time was right.

They stood together for some time, each lost in their own train of thought, but each moment linked to their lost brother. Prowl's optics had closed at some point, intensifying each sound with the loss of vision. Eventually, Bluestreak had had enough, and backed away slowly, "I've got a shift first thing tomorrow," he said.

I know. Prowl thought inwardly

"I'd better rest some before then if I can, I guess," he said, but it sounded more like a half-hearted hope than any real plan. Prowl nodded as if he were filing away the information like he would valuable intel for a battle plan.

"Good night, Bluestreak," he said, optics still closed as he opted to bow his helm.

He waited for a moment, feeling nothing but the coolness of metal beneath the ends of his digits before his optics snapped open. Bluestreak hadn't said anything back, meaning he was more than likely still standing just by Prowl, unable to break away from his grief.

He turned his helm, knowing he had to remind his brother to be on his way, preferably instead of collapsing of exhaustion in some hallway, "Bluestreak, you need to go recharge before-" Prowl trailed off, and suddenly found his whole frame ablaze with undiluted horror. Whatever Bluestreak had to recharge before was lost in the mech's mind. He felt his logic circuits threaten to fry themselves and glitch.

A snarling, massive, red-opticed Decepticon was standing with his blade at Bluestreak's throat, drawing a horrified sound from the Autobot commander as he met the wide blue optics drenched in fear.

This was not good.


	2. Chapter 2

_Help. _His pride had no place in this, especially not with Bluestreak on the line_. I have to call for-_

Prowl flinched, servos springing up to shield his aching audios, some sound of agony letting loose. "Oh, that's unfortunate. You didn't think I would account for comm-links? Your signals, however miniscule, are scrambled. It's going to be hard for you to call for help when there's no way for you to, much less anyone to hear it." Sadistic, half-choked laughter followed his unapologetic mocking. Red optics moved as the mech's helm tilted, a predator's gaze fixated on his squirming prey.

"Don't," came the hollow whisper, optics leaving those of his brother only for the slightest of moments to search for anything or anyone that could be of use.

Drift laid on the cool unforgiving ground, and he didn't look like he was moving, not even to vent. The only change was the splatter of energon on the metal, a leak from somewhere in the mech creating a rather nasty looking puddle. That was not a good sign.

_This can't be happening. Not again_. Once more, Prowl looked between the sinister intruder and his captor, a certain gray praxian. But, pulling his optics from Bluestreak, they only gravitated towards that glyph he'd been loath to see put on the wall of the memorial.

He looked back at the snarling, positively enormous mech and tried to keep his fear from showing. Vorns of experience suggested that he was doing so, but only by the enormity of his self-control and some miracle from Primus himself. The only one he was going to get, it seemed.

The Decepticon glowered at him, the light of his optics glinting harshly on Bluestreak's faceplate. Coolant formed in the significantly younger mech's optics and he trembled just on occasion in the grasp of his adversary. "Right," came the growl of that spiky warrior, rolling his optics at the base commander.

The blade pressed that much closer to Bluestreak's primary fuel line, and if that didn't tear Prowl up, the squeak that his brother didn't completely stifle made it that much worse. His doorwings quivered just the once, but it was enough for the mech to sneer at. "I think you don't need me to remind you that you are not in a position to make demands. Not if you want your precious Bluestreak to keep his head about him,"

That jagged knife was up against the very top of his brother's throat, just under his chin, and left the gray mech to struggle between staying on the very ends of his peds to letting the sharp notches cut into him. He could already feel himself beginning to slip, but the telltale trickle of cool liquid down his neck warned him against moving more than he already had.

Bluestreak looked pleadingly at his elder brother and prayed that Prowl wouldn't do anything stupid. Somehow, he had a feeling that it was in vain, and the look in his brother's optics only made the sniper's spark sink in its casing.

"You? Well, you're going to come with me," lips pulled around dentae into a sinister fanged smile. "If you try and pull anything, I'll just have to kill little old Bluestreak here, and then make you do what I want anyways."

The base commander's murderous optics had sent more than a few Decepticons fleeing over the course of the war, and a small number of Autobots had shrunk pitifully under the hateful glare that the masked mech was on the receiving end of. He didn't even flinch. To him, it was an empty threat; nothing more than the wrath of a glitch mouse. G_ood. _Prowl thought to himself. _Let him underestimate me. _

"Don't waste your energy on that stupid look you've got on your faceplate. We've got some work to do, now don't we, Commander?" he asked mockingly.

His servo clenched into a fist, and then unraveled just as quickly as it'd curled up. "Of course," Prowl retorted, sarcasm dripping from every icy word, "I wouldn't want to keep you waiting,"

"Ooh!" came a sharp invent from the Decepticon, "Someone is awfully touchy about this whole thing. Would you believe me if I said it wasn't personal?"

Prowl clenched his jaw. "No."

One wicked laugh only infuriated the praxian all the more. "Good, because it is," Bluestreak's captor dragged the gray mech onwards, heading towards the door with an ironclad grip on his new shiny toy. "Shall we, then?"

A long list of insults and biting words came to mind; Prowl reigned in every desire he had to rip this mech to shreds. He would have time and getting angry would only hurt one mech: Bluestreak. Playing this smart, like so many other situations, was the best and only option to get this resolved in a way that didn't end poorly.

"Hurry up," the mech hissed, shoving Bluestreak a little harder than necessary and dragging the unwilling mech along with them.

"You don't need him, you know," Prowl said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "You only need me. You can let him go, you don't have to hurt Bluestreak to get me to do what you want,"

Blue yelped, and Prowl didn't blame him for it. The blade wasn't exactly a toy, and it was clear this mech not only knew how to use it but was more than willing to do just that. "What, do you think I'm stupid?"

"No. I am only saying-"

"Self-preservation is highly motivating?" the intruder offered readily. It was as if he'd been waiting for him to make this point.

Prowl shrugged. "Well, yes,"

"Well, _no_. You may not know me, but I know you," the warrior snapped, and something told Prowl he really did, "I know you work yourself into the ground every single orn, you barely recharge, you act with swift and calculating precision most mechs can only dream of having. You don't give a frag about your own well-being; just everyone else. Bluestreak here just so happens to be one of the more meaningful pieces of the everyone else collection,"

Bluestreak, Prowl noted, looked rather angry himself, "Leave him alone, fragger. He's never going to help you, no matter what you do to me,"

Another knowing laugh. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Prowl. Your brother? Well, he wishes he wasn't right now. I'm personally very glad I'm not either. You seem to have a habit of losing them one too many times, now don't you?"

Two gray servos clenched his captor's arm, trying to keep the motions of the mech from driving those jagged edges any further than they had grazed already, and the younger Praxian fought to keep his balance. "It _isn't_ his fault. It never was,"

"Oh, of course. It's someone else's fault. Some underling; a low-ranking, disconnected Autobot who got the brunt of your mistake. Excuse me for forgetting myself. We all know what kind of mechs are really responsible for their commanders' mishaps,"

His words, Prowl had realized, had meaning beyond what he was saying. They were not complex in structure, but in their ideas and signifying something more than what was taken in at a first glance. As crafty as his assailant was, Prowl was by far more intelligent.

This mech was no stray Decepticon. He was the manifestation of the vengeance of one spiteful traitor in their ranks.

_Mole. There's a mole. _It would explain the nonexistent alarms, the brazen confidence with which they were being led down sentry-less halls. He had designed the routes; he had made sure whatever gaps that had existed were minimal. Whoever was leading this Decepticon through their security network was not only on the inside, he was someone who had the ability to observe and share this information as it was happening in real time.

Each step they took Prowl knew was one closer to fulfilling whichever devious plan was in motion, something he couldn't afford given all the progress that had been made despite such an enormous struggle. Setbacks in times like these would only serve as discouragement and would poorly affect morale more than any fear of attack.

He had two options, the way he saw it. One: put the Autobot cause first in one instant, and leave Bluestreak to the wolves, (or rather, just the one clawed and bloodthirsty wolf.) That was not necessarily an option for him. Two: he could outsmart this stranger. Unfortunately, the plan did not extend beyond "be clever" which as far as he was concerned was not much of a plan. Much less than sacrificing his brother, giving the Decepticon what he wanted was in no uncertain terms not a possibility, so "be clever" was about it for him.

Comm-link signals were individualized; as personal as their owners. Targeting all collective signals required something that not only prevented signals in and out of a communications system, but also a failsafe that acted as an occupant of the frequency space traditional communications took place in. His own signal was blocked, as was Bluestreak's. This mech, however, needed a guide through the base, and it most certainly was not Prowl. Unfortunate in this circumstance, because he could have led them straight into a highly populated area and gotten both himself and Bluestreak free with at least a hundred soldiers within optic view. The mech would have been taken down in an instant.

Jazz might have been able to hijack not only the signal this Decepticon was using, but also the scrambler occupying all of their frequencies. Prowl was less talented, but he could certainly manipulate it to achieve his goal. Yes, that would do quite nicely. A high-pitched noise, an even more grating firewall breaker… that would be all he saw.

"If you know so much about me, Decepticon, then tell me something," Prowl said, mapping out every fragment of the plan he'd stumbled into.

He snarled and pushed the both of them a little too hard. Prowl flinched at the sudden disorienting movement but didn't react otherwise. "I don't _work_ for you,"

"Humor me," Prowl said, more impassive than any normal mech could've been where he was. "If you know so much about us, then who was responsible for my brother's death?"

He hesitated. The brilliant thinker could see that hesitation written all over his faceplate, debating something. This mech knew it was a trap, but he just didn't know _how, _and it was bothering him like Prowl almost couldn't believe.

The mech snorted. "Shouldn't you know that?"

"Who pulled the trigger?" the tactician amended. That was surely easy enough to say.

"A Decepticon," the mech snapped.

"Which Decepticon?" Prowl pressed.

The mech did a double-take, and he gave Prowl a bizarre look. "How-?" a shake of the helm as if to discard what he'd said. "That doesn't make any sense. How am I supposed to know this?"

"Shouldn't you?"

"No," he grumbled, one servo coming up to touch his forehelm in a twinge of pain, "Just stop this slag, it's making my helm hurt,"

"Answer the question,"

A pause, a garble of comm-link chatter. "I don't know. You don't even know. Your records are incomplete,"

Frag, it hadn't kicked in his firewalls yet. "Yours aren't." Prowl pleaded for this to be distracting enough. Vengeance made little sense, and as much as it hurt he'd never been able to find the answers, this was about more than avenging Smokescreen. Keeping his living brother that way was the most important thing.

A peeved snarl, and scoff. "What makes you think we keep track of the glitch mice we step on?"

"Bounty hunters do. How else do they get paid?"

"No one put a hit on your stupid brothers, Autobot. Maybe on you, but these doorwingers are just cannon fodder, and we don't give a flying frag about them." One irritated mech, this foreign bounty hunter, was fighting back the urge to rip him into shreds. He needed Prowl, but Prowl was decidedly not too inclined to keep this mech around.

"Actually," Prowl began, optics locking with Bluestreak's and internally begging for him to be ready, "I do." A shrill screech of metal shearing and folding in on itself filled the mech's audios and he didn't fight off the sound; how could he? One gray praxian wrangled himself from the mech's grasp and shoved the invader away, watching him topple over and hit the ground in agony.

Prowl tore Bluestreak away from the mech, not like he needed convincing to leave, and the two bolted, "Sentries!" the Autobot commander hollered upon the telltale sound of peds gracing metallic hallway floors, "Intruder!"

* * *

Sluggish systems whined in protest as they booted up, one by one waging war on the drugs that clearly had slagged them to pieces. He hated being drugged, but something about trauma and rest and being forced into a medical berth had led First Aid to subdue him with the touch of a screen.

Blue optics snapped open and immediately closed. The world was spinning. Forget drugged, he'd been violently sedated. _Does First Aid not realize how potent these things are? For Primus sake, this is ridiculous. _Digits pressed into his faceplate and Prowl groaned. Pit-spawned insane medical sedatives. If there were ever a mech who was Ratchet's polar opposite in this instance, it was Aid. As much as he had confidence in the matured medic's abilities, it was absolute slag to have to struggle to think straight.

By some work of the unmaker, his audios still rang with Bluestreak's yelling, something that had clearly not yielded whatever he'd intended to in spite of angering their medic. Surprisingly, he'd fought off medical care nearly as fiercely as Prowl.

_Bluestreak. _The thought sent a jolt through his frame, and his lifeblood roared, the rapids of a thousand ocean planets coming to life within him. A throb in his helm greeted the sudden increase in his pulse and pushed away his focus in favor of pain. The aftermath of whatever had been in his systems warded off some of the agony, but the odd mix of medicine's aftereffects and newfound pain was doing nothing for him.

He turned his helm and dared to see if First Aid was around to fix whatever was wrong with him. Instead, he was surprised by the sight of one steely-opticed black and white mech.

"Jazz," Prowl sighed in relief, "It's good to see you,"

"You too, Prowl," the saboteur grinned wryly. While his tone seemed lightsparked, Prowl noticed his optics still told a different story. "You gave all of us a good old scare. You know better than to leave me in charge of anything, much less the base,"

"You are more than capable, and you don't need me to tell you that much,"

"Yeah. Doesn't mean I like it. I just- Prowl," Jazz sighed, and took on a conflicted look, sitting on the medical berth besides him, "I know you better than anyone, and I still couldn't do what you do,"

"I have lieutenants. Co-commanders, officers who are delegated responsibilities. And you, someone who just so happens to be a large part of supporting what it is I do," one black servo rested upon his friend's shoulder, "I have complete confidence in your ability to do your job. You should as well."

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Jazz went to speak, but hesitated. Not a good sign, Prowl knew. "So, we have no idea what he wanted? None?" He asked, faceplate contorting in disappointment.

"Bluestreak was collateral; so was Drift," Jazz said, dejected. "He didn't give you any information besides the mole, which we've determined is one of the mechs you demoted, Rollback. He fits the criteria a few times over. Bitter? Check. Traitor? Double check."

"He was demoted for more than sating my appetite for wrath,"

"I know that. The rest of them know it too. The new policies really are making bots feel safer. I'm sorry I made you doubt that. Jittery or not, they know you're capable. You've got their backs, and they're more than willing to have yours."

"Where is he now?"

"Interrogation. I was just with him and the collection of guards we have following him everywhere," Jazz answered, no hint of playfulness of bemusement to be seen. "You're lucky to be alive. With the bark he had, there was just as bad a bite to match. He was heavily armed; not just to the teeth, somehow beyond that."

"He wasn't using them,"

"Because he didn't need to. If he really wanted to, you'd have been dead on the floor,"

"Then why spare Drift?"

"He sure as _frag_ didn't plan on it. First Aid is still complaining about the welding that has to be done. I think he didn't see the mech, and by the time he did, a clean kill just didn't happen,"

"That's not possible, Jazz." Prowl shook his helm. "This mech is highly skilled, highly capable. He managed to get one of our own to turn on his faction and help him. Help him accurately, and frighteningly so. This efficiency wasn't just one born out of being informed; it was precision shaped by experience. Much like my own capabilities, the refinement of his executing whatever plan was formed was near perfect. That is not something that just happens on its own. He knew what he was doing,"

"He wanted the mech to suffer then? Draw out the kill and make it painful?"

Prowl shook his helm again. "No. To make him an example. The memorial is painful enough as is for so many amongst our ranks. We are no exception." He grimaced but pushed himself off the berth and fought with his equilibrium sensors as he wobbled in his place. "Bluestreak and I were put in our place before we knew what was happening. Jazz-" he hobbled across the room to stand besides Bluestreak's berth. "He planned it. He planned it all before we could think. He isn't just clever, he is not someone we can dismiss. Whoever he is, and whoever he is working with, they are a real threat to us."

"I'm not exactly underestimating him here, Prowl. He has twenty guards; he has been searched to the point of violating his sense of self. To be clear, he has two, redundant sets of stasis cuffs, and he can move about as fast as a shuffling, imprisoned, beaten mech, so escape isn't possible. This mech has given enough drugs to slow an army of Megatrons, much less one,"

"First Aid was likely displeased with your use of the drugs, no matter how sedative-happy he is- Ow, frag," a press of his servo to his faceplate once more. "Can you check to see if my processor melted and is leaking out my audios?" Came the sarcastic request, hoping to alleviate the bloodlust in Jazz's optics with his dry humor.

The saboteur wouldn't be deterred. "Frag the morals of medicine. He could have killed the both of you. If he's so absent minded he can't think straight, that's better than this mech slipping out and causing more damage." At Prowl's abrupt perk up, Jazz shook his helm firmly. "Oh, no. You are not dealing with any of this."

Prowl frowned. "I can, and I should. I have responsibilities, drugged or not." A stern look in Jazz's direction said the rest.

"No," his co-commander said, Prowl scowling furiously, "No! Do you think I have a death wish? I wouldn't wish your job on anyone, but definitely not you. Not with First Aid ready to destroy me if I let you so much as twitch the wrong way,"

He quirked an optic ridge while his doorwings did in fact, twitch a few times. "You of all mechs? You're afraid of First Aid?"

"Yeah, and that should say something," Jazz rose to his peds and pointed accusingly at his friend. "Your little stunt pissed him off, not to mention Drift's condition making his existence that much harder. He's Ratchet's apprentice, Prowler, not just any old medic. He will obliterate you, and then me, and then you again for undoing all of his hard work. I don't want to do this job for longer than I have to, but as long as I do need to, I will. Better a few orns than ten when he confines you to this berth,"

Deterred, Prowl vented heavily. "I suppose it would be unfair to sic our tranq-happy, CMO-scary paradox on you if you have all this work to do, then?"

"Yeah. We'll figure it out, eventually." Jazz shrugged, those same serious optics giving him an affirmative as he walked backwards out of the medbay. "I'm glad you're not dead. Now stay put, or I'll have to arrange a memorial, too."

Prowl scoffed and rolled his optics. "Thank you, Jazz. Friend of the century. What would I do without you?"

"Develop some really unhealthy, anti-self-care habits?" The mech offered.

"Indubitably," he said, his sarcasm muffled by the pressing of his servos to his faceplate. The doors hissed open and closed; Prowl didn't need to look to know Jazz had gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy New Year! **

**Been busy, update took a while, but here it is. This really gets the ball rolling for the plot, we're really getting into the actual story with the end of this chapter, and we find out who has broken into the Autobot city, as well as seeing the effects the Decepticons are having on some of these mechs. Hinted at a ship of mine, sorry not sorry. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"He's not in his office, Sunstreaker," one of the guards barked. Denta bared and he fought back a snarl.

"I don't believe you, Kickback," the yellow mech said irritably.

"Well, it doesn't matter if you don't believe me, because he isn't here."

"Well, where is he?"

"Busy."

His spark panged. "But I need to _talk_ to him,"

"It'll have to wait."

"It can't wait!" he shouted. The guilt was gnawing away at him more and more every orn; he had to speak with Prowl. The frontliner couldn't take it anymore. Sideswipe hadn't been any help, he was hurting too. Before this awfulness swallowed him whole, he needed freedom.

Both mechs looked between one another, and then at the disheveled autobot in front of them. "Sunstreaker, I'm just saying this one more time because I'm your friend. If you don't scram, and stop causing such a ruckus, you're going to get in trouble and you just got your record clean, mech."

He stared pleadingly at Kickback for an astrosecond and vented miserably. "Fine," he snapped, backing away and throwing the two mechs a dirty look over his shoulder. Sunstreaker marched away from the office, playing the whole scenario over and over in his mind, trying to make sense of it all. It only left him all the more conflicted and hurt, and he wrestled that agony to the ground. _Frag it._

He didn't even notice he'd passed by Jazz, who was slinking around in the shadows after the sentries he'd posted in the officers' deck had alerted him to the disturbance. Seemed like Prowl was severely missed, no matter how well Jazz had covered for him. This, he decided, was not good, and a symptom of a larger issue lurking in their prison tower.

* * *

Lockdown wasn't much of a flincher. He had adopted a set of tools to maintain his intense indifference to these Autobots and their scare tactics vorns ago.

Well, perhaps not these Autobots. News of Optimus Prime's disappearance and the destruction of the Ark had left many Decepticons and their allied bodies rejoicing at the crumbling blow to this rattled and broken army they stood against. It seemed only Prime stood between them and victory.

They had been wrong. Lockdown and several others learned this very quickly. Word quickly spread Prowl had only been kept in check by Optimus's kind nature, and the death of his brother had clearly only pissed this tactician off all the more. In charge and leading the charge, Prowl had annihilated any hope of an easy Decepticon victory, or a future for the Decepticons at all, to be honest.

Or at least the idea of him had. Lockdown mused, staring at the hateful optics of the Autobot in front of him. The interrogation room was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the intensity those optics held. White and black, more white than black to be seen, but the darkness lurked beneath the surface. This mech had sat patiently before him for joors. He didn't speak, he didn't twitch or show signs of discomfort. And his name was Jazz.

As much fear as the name Prowl carried, Lockdown knew the smarter Decepticons (though they were few) knew of and feared this smaller, slyer mech. The bounty hunter's own personal theory was that as cold and calculating as Prowl could be, the real spearhead of the Autobot forces was Jazz.

And he seemed very intrigued by Lockdown.

Jazz couldn't know. It didn't seem possible or make sense.

No, there was no way the mech who'd broken into their base did this just _because_. Lockdown was a pain in the aft when he was paid to be one. He and many of the other bounty hunters had left when the Decepticons's funds had dried up. Only a few had been spotted every so often, clearly not interested in poking the bear named Autobot Cause, because they steered clear of just about anything with the capacity to royally piss off Prowl and his commanders.

Neither spoke. Lockdown didn't have anything he wanted to say. Jazz wasn't one to make the first move, so for a number of orns, Lockdown's companions were his thoughts, his rest, a nice pair of cuffs, and occasionally a hateful stare from behind a darkened mirror when Jazz wasn't in the room.

A battle of wills. Who would break the tension first? Lockdown scoffed. It wouldn't be him. Jazz was far too talkative, and Lockdown was far too indifferent.

"You're planning something," Jazz said, standing behind that glass layer in the observation room. "I know you're planning something, but what?"

"Prowl would know," Mirage reminded him.

"Prowl is in medbay, drugged to the Pit. Even if he wasn't he'd be no help. Just angry and not thinking straight. Not helpful,"

"I don't know if you've noticed, but a lot of us are angry,"

"Those who know," the black and white mech reminded his companion. "The city is supposed to be safe. No one knows about the break in besides the soldiers who took Lockdown into custody and the few others he came into contact with,"

"Drift didn't help him. His alibi checks out. Did you know that he and Ratchet-?" Jazz gave him a look, and Mirage scoffed. "Oh of course you did. Why would I bother to be surprised?"

"Because sometimes I do surprise you,"

Mirage nodded. "Your ability to know things is uncanny, even for you,"

"It serves its purpose,"

"And does Lockdown serve his purpose?"

"He doesn't have one," Jazz said, "He serves himself and right now he's after something specific, but I don't know what for. It can't be financially-driven. There're no funds for him to take. Even if there were, I doubt he'd come out of retirement, crawling out of whatever hole he's been hiding in to do something as loud, brazen and stupid as this for spare change,"

"But it's not personal?" The specops mech frowned to stare at their prisoner. "I though he told Prowl it was?"

"Any interactions Lockdown has had in the past with Prowl have been strictly professional. He just doesn't care enough about him or the Autobots to carry that kind of vendetta, much like act on it. Lockdown is apathetic about everything except his bounties, and in this case, there are no reasons for him to care. But for some reason he does, and I can't quite pinpoint it,"

"So, the 'why' eludes you?"

"Nothing eludes me," the saboteur snapped, "It only tries,"

"Jazz, it's been orns, Prowl being kept under for this long is clearly not good, and Lockdown hasn't said one word."

"He will,"

"When?" Mirage asked, "Prowl can't be chained to the medbay forever. You know this."

Jazz scowled. "I know. Lockdown won't be able to keep quiet forever. He's gone too far this time,"

"Has he?"

"What do you mean?

"Has he gone too far? He didn't kill anyone. He barely scratched Bluestreak, and let's face it; if he wanted us all dead, way more Autobots would be."

"It's not about what he did; it's about what him doing what did stands for,"

"And what's that?"

The specops commander vented heavily. "Fort City is exactly that. It's the City of Fortitude. And while they've made grabs for our soldiers, our brothers and sisters in arms, our officers, ranking commanders and leaders, even our medic, we beat their afts into the ground. If you look at the statistics Prowl whipped up, for every two Autobot casualties, there are twenty-nine Decepticon deaths. More if you include non-fatal casualties,"

"And how is this different?"

"One lone Decepticon came in here, attacked three of our highest ranking and respected mechs. Three casualties, not counting the mechs that had to wrestle Lockdown to the ground and were injured in the process,"

Mirage's optics grew wide. "All on our own turf, and a totally different ratio,"

"It's Lockdown, too. He's got a certain reputation if you know what I mean,"

"Yeah, well his reputation, even if it doesn't have his name attached to it, is running rampant through the rumor mill," Mirage said, "Lockdown will have to wait. Prowl's disappearance is causing questions, and anxiety. You need to do something to shut it all down,"

* * *

"Quintessans?" Jazz repeated uneasily, "You think we're dealing with Quintessans? We have confirmed sightings of Decepticon forces, and you want to talk about the ancient race who enslaved us and left us for dead,"

"They're just rumors, Jazz," Sideswipe said good naturedly, though his apprehension was clear, "There are crazier ones, trust me,"

"It isn't like you to rely on the gossip mill for information, Siders,"

"Yeah, well, it isn't like you to hide stuff from us,"

"That's the thing, there's nothing to hide. We just don't know anything besides the obvious,"

"But something is wrong, because the patrols are now in larger groups, more often, and the sentries are more than twice as present, and now there's mandatory training, every single orn."

Jazz gave Sideswipe a slightly irritated look, "First of all, training isn't bad for you. No matter how good you are, you can always get better, and we've got that batch of new Bots on base who need to be whooped into shape, so it's just an excuse to make sure everyone else is up to the same standards," Sideswipe scowled, rolling his optics at that.

"Second, you not being able to prank is a good thing," The saboteur said, ignoring his companion's mock gasp of horror, "First Aid, Prowl and me all have better things to do than try to micromanage you, and if the sentries are keeping you in line? Well, too bad. Third, you of all bots should know exactly why we're taking the precautions that we are with those patrols,"

Sideswipe recoiled, giving Jazz an incredulous look. The red mech turned over his shoulder to make sure there were no mechs eavesdropping and returned with a venomous state for his commanding officer, "That," he hissed furiously, "That was not my fault."

"I know it wasn't. Don't get all defensive with me. We never should have had such small groups to begin with, and before you go off on me," Jazz said levelly, "You should know that Prowl blames himself more than any other one of us for losing him,"

"It was my responsibility to make sure they were both safe, not just Bluestreak,"

"You saved Bluestreak's life, Sideswipe, and you almost died trying to get to the creep who took the shot,"

"I should've killed him,"

"Smokescreen was already gone, Sides. There was nothing you could have done to bring him back,"

"I could've at least tried harder."

"You did your best. And your best is pretty slagging good. But increasing the number of bots on the patrols is undoubtedly going to save lives,"

"And keeping me off of them is too?" he snapped angrily. "I haven't been out on one since you all spotted the cons,"

"No, you haven't. Frag it, Siders, they're going to stop being so skittish and make a move eventually. You just have to decide what you're going to do to help us stop them,"

"By getting out of the way?"

"By being a combat instructor," Jazz interjected, standing just behind the red frontliner with a serious expression. "This is a promotion, Sideswipe. A step up. You and your brother will be responsible for training our forces in preparation for the brutality of our foes. We need more than just two terror twins out there,"

The red twin jumped. Not much could startle him, but the silent way Jazz moved when you weren't looking was as freaky as the saboteur jump-scaring bots for the fun of it.

"You and Sunstreaker start tomorrow. Prowl's orders. Now get on with your duties, pitspawn,"

* * *

"Easy," First Aid cautioned, watching his determined patient hike his doorwings up and fight for that impeccable posture as he shuffled across the medbay. He stumbled, and his optics flared when two servos "Prowl be _careful_. He damaged your stabilizer servos. They've needed this long to recalibrate, you've overexerted yourself,"

Bluestreak flinched. "Prowl, maybe Aid is right?" He suggested, watching his brother's stubbornness slowly lose the fight against gravity's siren call. "Prowl- hey, no, wait!"

Prowl toppled over and swore lividly when the two medic technicians caught him. His humiliation was complete, he decided. "This is why I chained you to the slagging berth in the first place. Take it easy for once in your life,

"You drugged me,"

"I sedated you," First Aid amended, "You were far too agitated and noncompliant for my liking, or to the liking of your commanders, for that matter,"

"Frag it, Aid. When I tell you I'm fine I mean it," Prowl scowled. "He barely pushed me,"

"I'm sure you think so. But even you're wrong sometimes, and you know that. This is one of those times, Prowl,"

"If you weren't _you_, I'd have you strapped to a berth and sedated for a decaorn,"

"You're acting like a child, it wasn't an entire decaorn of sedation. Just a decaorn in the medbay,"

"And how have you been recharging while keeping me under observation?"

"As well as I ever do." He said, pausing in his work to look at Prowl and let his optics say what he couldn't in front of all of the other mechs. He hadn't slept well since the last break in, and this hadn't done anything to chase away his demons. "There've been other things I've had to do. As much as it might surprise you, my life doesn't revolve around taking care of you,"

"Positively blasphemous," he said. Those who knew the praxian well smiled, they could hear the humor in his voice.

"Obviously."

First Aid moved from the console by his medical berth to fish for something in one of his cabinets. "Now, are you going to be difficult, and make me take longer to discharge you from my care, or are you going to sit still so I can give you the nanobots you need before you-" a hiss of doors interrupted him, and he didn't have to look to know Prowl had left. "Before you do that," he vented and moved his way over to the waiting courier mech, who took the case knowingly.

"I'll see to it that this is delivered with appropriate instructions, then?"

"Please do," First Aid rolled his optics. "And perhaps mention since he's never been officially discharged, I can and will drag him back here as my patient whenever I so choose?"

"I'll try to think of a way to slip that in without actually threatening the city commander," he rolled his optics.

"Don't set off any guards on this excursion, please. The base is still completely locked down after whatever happened in the lower levels,"

"I'll try not to," he said, and left through the same doors but in the opposite direction, bound for the departed mech's quarters. It was a route he knew well, and while he suspected Prowl had won this round, the courier knew his mentor would see to it that the tactician would surrender. Eventually, and perhaps unwittingly. He shook that train of thought off and punched in his security code to get from the one sector to the next. The doors opened, and he continued on his way, out of First Aid's sight.

* * *

Jazz, despite his good intentions, had taught the wrong mech to sneak around. Prowl had slipped from the medbay and through the base, avoiding those mechs he knew would force him back into that glorified narcotics shrine, where a specially made dose waited just for his return.

He had duties, yes, but the one responsibility at the forefront of his processor was Bluestreak. He leaned against the wall just down the hall from the medbay, watching the doors for his brother's exit. It took some time, but eventually the gray mech made his way from First Aid's pride and joy, over towards where Prowl was waiting. He turned the corner, and saw his brother waiting just down the corridor.

"You!"

"Hello, Bluestreak,"

"You snuck out, again,"

"I did,"

"Aid's only trying to help," the younger brother said, "You know that, Prowl,"

The black and white mech nodded but made no move to leave his 'hiding' spot. "Are you alright?"

His younger brother shrugged but didn't want to meet his optics and shuffled uncomfortably. "The fresh welding kind of sucks," he admitted, finally breaking the silence. Prowl nodded.

"We haven't been able to speak since everything happened," Prowl reminded him. "Not really. Which, I understand, after what he said. As my brother, you do tend to be in all kinds of danger because of my actions. It isn't fair,"

"I don't blame you for it," Bluestreak mumbled. "Not everything is fair, but that doesn't make it your fault,"

"But something else does?" the base commander pressed. "Bluestreak, who do you blame for Smokey's death?"

Bluestreak fell silent. _Oh. _Prowl thought. _That's what I was afraid of._ One of the unfortunate results of his ability to map out countless scenarios was his ability to infer highly probable outcomes. They were usually less than optimal when it came to his personal life, he'd noticed.

"Blue," he said softly, reaching out to squeeze his brother's shoulder, "It's not your fault any more than it was Sideswipe's."

"I'm a slagging sniper, Prowl. How did I not see that coming?"

"For the same reason I didn't either. I should've been able to predict the two of you together patrolling the outskirts of our perimeter was a recipe for disaster,"

"You didn't know we switched shifts." Bluestreak frowned.

Prowl gave his brother a soft, but unimpressed look. "I didn't know that my brothers were breaking the rules? That they were spending time together and on the same shift with the same duty on the same day? Do you know what the odds of you two forsaking the rules and convincing one of the twins to trade with you were?"

"Pretty high?"

"Not a bad estimate,"

"So, you knew?" Bluestreak asked incredulously.

"I very strongly suspected it," Prowl admitted, "Blue, you're not exactly a criminal mastermind. You are my brother, and I like to think I know you quite well,"

He looked embarrassed, but unburdened, his spinal strut straightening and a sheepish smile appearing. "I don't blame you, and neither would Smokescreen. Sunstreaker, however, feels awful, and maybe guiltier than you if Jazz is to be believed,"

"Sunny?" The sniper looked dumbstruck, "He had nothing to do with it. Why would Jazz say that?"

"Jazz knows things not even I would suspect, Bluestreak. Perhaps you can tell him it isn't his fault. It would go a long way for the both of you to forgive yourselves, and each other,"

"Sunstreaker thinks I'm mad at him?"

"You haven't told him otherwise, from my understanding," Prowl said, tilting his helm to lean towards the direction of the rec room. Bluestreak hesitated. "Go on," his brother encouraged him. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it, Blue, now go on,"

He watched as the gray mech made his way, slowly at first, from where they'd stood and towards the more public areas of the base, walking with purpose past sentries and several other autobots on his trek. Bluestreak would be fine, he reasoned with himself. And with that, Prowl moved from his resting place, still walking along the wall in case his strength threatened to fail him. One servo faintly brushed against those metal halls, and he walked as upright as he could muster along his way.

* * *

"Shush," Prowl said, as if scolding his friend.

"Did you just-?"

Prowl shushed him again. "First Aid drugged me, and you let him."

"I did warn yah,"

"It's not like I didn't try to listen, but he didn't have to drug me,"

"Yah barely tried, so I think he did. Sorry, Prowl,"

"Don't know why I did. Spent a slagging decaorn in the brig and your debut as city commander, dealing with this mech has gotten us nowhere," Prowl frowned. "I can't shake the feeling that he's familiar,"

"That's cause he is. We've identified him as bounty hunter Lockdown."

"Lockdown?"

"Yeah. Looks real weird, doesn't he?"

"Perhaps just less visually..."

"Hateful?"

Prowl quirked an optic ridge. "Hateful?"

"He's not exactly mister happy nice guy now, but looks more like a mech than I've ever seen him,"

"Do we have anything?" Prowl asked. "Do we know why he did this?"

"His motive? Nah." Jazz pulled out a datapad to hand it to Prowl. "

"And the turncoat?" Prowl began sifting through the data, already drawing up a network of connections in his processor. This was a case just like any other in Praxus before the war, and the familiarity was nearly welcome despite everything. "Where are we with Rollback?"

"Rollback was unfortunately a dead end. Clammed up. I couldn't make a bigger mess of that than it already is, I left him to be more publicly interrogated by a couple of our specialists." A smart move, Prowl knew. Rollback had higher ranking friends, and it would be all too easy to let his off the books 'accidental' torture slip loose and anger a number of mechs. "He's surprisingly difficult to crack. For being a bitter traitor, he's not exactly rushing to justify his actions,"

"That doesn't mean there's not anything there,"

"I know."

Prowl leaned against the top of his desk, tracing a scratch unfamiliar to him, but aged and worn into the material he'd recharged on too often. "Do you think we'll break him in time?"

"We'll break him. But I don't know what deadline we're up against. For now, things have been quiet,"

"How quiet?"

"A skirmish on a patrol, one Autobot was injured, as well as two Decepticons and potentially a third injury turned fatality on their side."

"So, the usual?"

"Nothing to suggest Lockdown's actions or his failure are related to the Decepticons just outside our borders."

"And you ordered him sedated?"

"First Aid wasn't happy about it,"

"That's saying something. You could've fried his processor,"

"Better him than you or Blue. He'll live. I wasn't taking any chances. Not when it comes to you two,"

"I appreciate it,"

"Drift is clear,"

"I figured. He bled a little too much to really be a suspect. I hope you didn't alienate him figuring that out,"

"Nah, I know you wouldn't have liked that, and he's proved himself to us a number of times. Alibi was solid," Jazz hesitated. "Ratch vouched for him, too," the saboteur said, wincing out of habit at the look Prowl gave him.

Ratchet didn't vouch for very many mechs, really only a handful, and though he was long since dead, his defense of Drift still stood strong. The chief medical officer wouldn't have had it any other way, either; both mechs knew it.

"He did," Prowl agreed. He continued to swipe through the mech's file, stumbling on a picture of his former persona. "Do you think we could glean any information from him on Lockdown? We only ever get an outside perspective, but the chances of him encountering this bounty hunter were actually fairly high,"

"He doesn't even know what hit him. I could always brief him, but including one more mech in the secret?"

"It's risky, and he's likely embarrassed."

"Not to mentioned traumatized. There's a hefty bounty on his helm, you know. He's already skittish and injured. From First Aid's recent transmission, I take it you didn't wait to be cleared before leaving?"

"No, is Drift still in medbay?" Prowl asked, at which Jazz nodded. "So how do we figure this all out if the only potential witness?"

Jazz shrugged. "Mech, I don't know. Lockdown's got tough armor in more ways than one, and skinning him alive won't get us very far,"

Prowl glared half-sparked at his friend. "And did you already try this?"

"For me to know and for you to never find out."

The tactician suspected it hadn't worked then. "And our other strategies? These Decepticons are clearly not as scared as I thought they were,"

"Bold moves often mask fear, Prowl."

"So, you're saying this _was_ an act of desperation?"

"If the lug wrench fits,"

"And Lockdown is just going to tell us all of his employer's fears?"

"You wanted to have a conversation," Jazz said pointedly. "Converse,"

It seemed nothing would be that simple, he would learn, but Prowl began to toy with the idea of how exactly to get Lockdown to speak. He had to start somewhere.

* * *

After a long, stressful interrogation that hadn't gotten anything besides silence, Prowl walked alongside the mech and dipped his ped into a flurry of psychological tactics he'd adopted.

"You'll break eventually,"

Lockdown said nothing, and shuffled forwards in those rattling chains, a faint hum of energy zapping through them as if to say: I dare you to step a toe out of line.

"It really is a matter of time, bounty hunter. You are mech, no matter how reputable and deeply flawed, and to be honest, I'm just waiting for that weakness that's taken root to finally blossom. Its fruits will certainly be worth the wait."

Still silent in his shuffle through the prison quadrant's corridors. Prowl scoffed; what was he, a monk under a vow of silence? A spiteful glare from those glowing red optics suggested otherwise. He was hiding his time.

"You can't keep this up forever. It isn't practical. Not a very good long-term plan,"

They stopped in front of the set of doors leading to the cells, and the guards moved to gain clearance to continue their trek onwards. The tactician shrugged off his irritation. They'd failed today, but in time, Lockdown would know there would be no help forthcoming, and his only allies would be himself along with whomever he least alienated in the interrogation process.

He moved to go down a hall and continue about his orn. "You know, Autobot, you aren't one to lecture me on plans,"

Prowl stopped in his tracks and resisted the urge to laugh. "Of course not. I'd have to have experience with them or something as utterly ridiculous as that," he said, oozing sarcasm.

Lockdown snorted.

"Funny, is it?"

"Maybe."

"Would you care to enlighten me?"

"You know," he said, mimicking thoughtfulness, "I think I might."

Prowl moved forwards, preparing to order the mechs back to a more suitable environment to continue the conversation when the floor underneath them shuddered and sent a number of mechs tumbling down to kiss it.

"What was that?" One asked, still managing too keep his balance.

"My cue," Lockdown grinned wickedly, and before the guard thought twice, he was tossed clear across the room into a wall with a horrible crunch.

Lockdown lunged for Prowl, whose shout was drowned out by the shrieks of the prison tower when metal ripped itself apart in a fiery cloud of destruction and shrapnel.

Bombs- the city was being bombed he realized, and though Lockdown had been bound, he was freeing himself with a key- where had he gotten the key? Prowl's processor ran rampant, he fought panic down and pushed himself up to his peds to follow his only strategy: run. Run and lead the mech into a situation where he and his Autobots had the higher ground. He'd made it all of three steps when Lockdown's servo clasped his arm and pulled him back.

Prowl fought back. He tugged at the grip on his arm; Lockdown had to be weak after also being drugged and chained and given minuscule rations. He was also injured Prowl realized, seeing the trickle of blue sneak onto the floor beneath them. He searched for the source, calculating how best to take advantage of his opponent's weakness.

His optics met the bounty hunter's and he reached out to strike the mech. The praxian wouldn't go down with a fight, that much Lockdown knew.


End file.
